See you sleeping
by Secret Time Lord
Summary: I can see your thoughts plain as day. I can see the thrill in your eyes. This house has to be haunted. I understand where you're coming from. And, you're right. It is haunted.


I can see your thoughts plain as day.

I can see the thrill in your eyes.

_This house _has _to be haunted._

I understand where you're coming from.

And, you're right.

It is haunted.

They're terrifying, far worse than any horror movie. And worse that the ones you watch every Tuesday night. In the dark, I can see the fear in your eyes as they flick towards every dark shadowy spot.

I know what you're thinking.

_It's moving._

When you're on your laptop at night, I see the cautious way you look at the doorway. You _know_ something's there, but you can't prove it.

Every time you stay at home and sit at the computer, I can see you quivering because of the long creaks and thumps that fill this house. You scream when somebody knocks at the door.

Over the several months you've lived here I can see the damage the ghouls are doing to you. Your eyes are glassy and there are dark circles under them from long nights without sleep. Your skin, deeply tan when you first got here, has faded and turned a sallow fish belly white. Your bones are more prominent, and your eyes are sunken.

I know you're waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I know you're waiting to see them.

I know they're hiding from you, teasing you, leading you on.

They love that fear in your eyes.

That tremble in your lip.

They love the way you squeeze your eyes shut at night and stumble across the room.

Trust me, you don't want to see them.

The night you do, I sit in the corner and whimper, watching with my own horrified gaze.

You're walking down the hall, lights off. You're avoiding looking straight down the hall; it's become taboo. You bump into a wall, and you look up.

Bad idea.

She's standing there, just a silhouette, staring at you with a dark face you know has eyes. Her arm's dangling by her side. You stand there, petrified, hardly breathing. You want to look away but she's got you in a thrall. Her arm reaches up towards you, palm raised. You know she would be looking at you pleadingly.

She flickers around the edges.

When she disappears, you stand there for a second more, legs locked.

You run out of the house and leap into your car and drive away.

I miss you.

You're gone for several days.

You come back with a friend. I don't like him. He looks straight at me like he can see me.

He speaks with a British accent.

When he goes, you're braver; certain what you saw was just your movies getting to you. Things are quiet for a few days.

It all comes crashing down.

I know you're terrified by the loud thumping, and muffled voices coming from other rooms. I know you're terrified from the notes left on your computer. I know you are absolutely pissed pants scared from the static on the TV in the middle of the night.

Don't worry, you'd have to be insane not to be. They've had years, decades, to perfect these techniques. They've had dozens of families and people staying in these rooms. They know everything.

You run away again when furniture and keys move themselves around.

I know you aren't coming back.

You surprise me with your stubbornness.

This time it's worse. Words get scratched onto the walls, tar starts dribbling from the ceiling, reflections of ghostly people and pale faces in mirrors and screens.

You're scared.

I am too.

GET OUT is written everywhere.

It's like the movies you watch. But the Others are worse. They flicker around the edges of your vision. Teasing. You swear they are watching you from the cobwebby shadows of your room.

They are.

You know they're there.

One day you won't wake up.

I know that.

You don't.

They've taken to threatening you. Smothering you with an iron grip, raising knives so they brush your hair, and leaving nooses dangling from the rafters to scare you.

This is the most brazen they've ever been.

I watch them string you up and set fire to you.

You see me through the flames.

I wave and mouth 'sorry'.

That scares you.

I wish I could talk to you, now more than ever. I thought you were pretty. Smart. I had been attached to you for a while. I learned all your habits; the way you drank tea in the morning and before bed, the way you brushed your hair, the way you were content to lounge around in pyjamas on Sundays, a day my mother used to make me wear uncomfortable starched shirts, and pinching dress shoes.

Here I was watching your fat melt and sizzle in the flames. Shame, really.

Your British friend came back after your funeral. He talked to me. Told me I could go to a place better than any home ever.

He called it the 'Next Great Adventure'.

Said I could see you there.

He looked really sincere, with his green eyes.

I'll see you soon.

…

I'm not sure whether this will be complete or a work in progress. I know it's a bad idea to start another series right now, but I can't seem to find the will to care.

Secret Time Lord over and out


End file.
